The Spark and the Smoke

By: Wolmek Posted on: December 31, 2007

This is a poem about the re-ignition of the Burning Times by the Archprelate Rho Evensong and his Anointed by burning down the library of the Revolutionaries of Chaos in Hashan.

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The skies they were darkened and sere

The bluebells turned idly pursuing

the tail of the north wind, unheeding

the throng that would be their undoing;

The throng restless 'round the Archprelate:

nervous, abating their fear

with the calm of their veiled Archprelate

watching the bluebells' slow weaving.

The skies they burnt crimson, enraptured

The sand cowered down, slowly shirking

from the dead finger scorching its skin

from the sign of the twin, bright azure.

The gathered faithful, marked akin

stood awed by the burning azure

as a dead voice breathed, clouding and murking

their minds with glib, beguiling words.

The skies they were sombre and gray

The bluebells stood tense and despairing

watching the torches passed around

The Archprelate nods and a light

is passed until each torch is flaring;

they wait fervent, blessing the Light

when a door creaks and without a sound,

the Archprelate leads the way.

The skies they burnt red, a dull copper

The sand begged the wind to efface

the circle that burnt it, in vain.

The cards stayed still where they'd been placed.

While the Dragon stood charging his Death,

the Prophet harangued those gathered to pace

themselves with the times, that his death

was the death of the illusion maintained

by those who find comfort in Order.

The skies they were leaden and sober

The bluebells hung pallid and drear

The skies they were ashen and smeared

with the grey of the smoke that was rising-

the bluebells were scented with fear

with the fear, with the smoke that was rising-

from the fire that enveloped the bower

the spark that the Archprelate reared.

The skies they burnt bronze, slowly dusking

to black. The sand eddied in frenzy.

The skies they traced in the far northern

reaches, a grey line now winding

across the bronze. Sand-blinded many

gathered, now gazed at the winding

line, muttering with concern,

a question that needed no asking.

The skies they were weathered and dusted

The bluebells sank dead and despaired

of hope. A far, mountaintop quivered

with the weight of the Archprelate's zeal

and failing to bear the weight, aired

to the world, the new revenant zeal

of the Light and those few who answered

the call to arms, the true Anointed.

The skies they were opaque, sans mercy,

sans surcease; the sands purged the circle

and flung the cards to deep, dank caves.

The Prophet trudged back to the Crown,

his faithful found nought salvageable.

The Prophet sifted through the crowns

of bluebells choked by the grey leaves

of the lore from aeons passed by.

The skies they will burn with the dawn

the bluebells now buried, anew

will birth a new breed for the morrow.

The sands will roll by. As time heals

all wounds, so this war will pass on;

But, alas, as time wounds all heels,

we will know glory, know sorrow

and sing 'em or stage 'em for you.